Urith: A Tale of Dartmoor

by S. Baring-Gould

CHAPTER III. CAUGHT UP ON THE WAY.

Anthony looked back. Strange was the appearance of the moor side, half-lighted by the skies reddened with the reflection of fires beyond the hills, but with its surface travelled ever by sparks. An imaginative mind might have thought that mountain gnomes were alert, and were rambling torch in hand over the moor. Now one red spark wandered along in solitude, then out flashed a second, and ran to meet it; as if they were the lights of comrades hailing each other. Suddenly a score sparkled and danced in a ring, and were as suddenly extinguished. Or it might be supposed that the spirits of the primeval tin-workers had returned to earth once more, and were revisiting their ancient circles and avenues of stone, to perform in them the rites of a forgotten religion.

To the south-east rose Mistor, one of the loftiest summits on the moor, on whose rocky crest, scooped out by wind and water, is a huge circular bowl, called by the natives the Devil's Fryingpan, in which he prepares the storms that lash and explode on the moor. And now it really seemed as though the Spirit of the Tempest were at work, brewing in his bowl.

In the strange after-glow that partially lighted the hill-side could be seen dark figures descending the Lyke-Way, and approaching the ford where Anthony was vainly endeavouring to force his cob to cross. Anthony uttered an oath, and then redoubled his attempts to drive the brute into the water. But it came to the edge, snuffed, and recoiled.

"What is it?" asked Urith, still watching the pursuing shadows.

Urith ran back over the stones.

"Only some folks coming after us. By heaven! I wish I could get this cursed beast over."

"If you take the bridle on one side, I on the other, and coax the horse, we can cross by the double stones, and he can go in the middle."

"As the bearers with the dead," said Anthony.

Urith patted the frightened beast, talked to him, praised him, and taking the bridle, quietly led him down to the stream. Ever and anon, she turned to look back, and saw the shadowy figures rapidly nearing. Who could they be? Would they recognise her? Were they such as would be likely to recognise her? What, if they knew her, would they think of her being at such a time, and in such a place, alone with Anthony Cleverdon?

Would it be advisable to step aside, and let these travellers pass without seeing her? But she was too ashamed to make such a proposal to her companion. So, as she was caressing the horse, and urging him into the water, these pursuers, whoever they were, drew nearer. She could distinguish that they were mounted.

Anthony stood on the stepping-stones on one side, Urith on those upon the other. The frightened horse cautiously put his hoofs in, snuffed at the water, began to drink, recovered confidence, and allowed himself to be led along through the stream.

They were past the middle of the river when the pursuers came to the side of the stream, and a loud male voice exclaimed——

"There is the runaway, and by God—not alone!"

Urith shuddered, her hand twitched at the bridle, and made the horse start. She knew the voice well. It was not a pleasant one, harsh, and with mockery and insult in its tones. As her hand contracted, so did her heart, and sent a rush of blood tingling to her temples.

"That is Fox Crymes!" she said to her companion, "the last, the very last man I would have had see me here."

"Why the last?" asked Anthony, stepping on the bank, and leading the horse up on the land. "Why the last that you would have see you, Urith?"

"Because it was on his account I ran away."

"What," laughed Anthony, "Then it is Fox whom you would have bitten, had he allowed you to fasten your teeth on him?"

Urith's colour deepened; if Anthony had had pity, he would not have said this. If he had looked in her face, he would have seen how dark it was with shame and vexation.

"You wring all out. You are cruel—yes, Fox Crymes," she muttered.

"And I am not surprised. I would like to thrash him," said Anthony. "For one thing, for coming up with us now."

The pursuing party consisted of but three, Fox—his real Christian name was Anthony—and two others, Bessie, the sister of Anthony Cleverdon, and Julian, Fox Crymes' half-sister. Both Crymes and Cleverdon had the same Christian name. Old Cleverdon, the father, had been sponsor to Crymes, and in compliment to him had received at the font his godfather's name.

Fox was the only son of Fernando Crymes. Since childhood he had borne the nickname, partly because of his red hair, partly because of his pointed features, also, in a measure, because it was thought that somewhat of the craft and subtlety of Reynard was intwined in his nature. He did not object to the designation; it had attached itself to him at an early age, when it conveyed no meaning to his mind, and in mature years he accepted it without demur, and was perhaps a little proud that he should be credited with superior shrewdness.

After the death of Fox's mother, old Fernando Crymes had married an heiress—a Glanville—and by her had a single daughter, Julian, at whose birth this second wife had died. Fernando Crymes, though belonging to a very ancient and estated family, had frittered away such remains of the property as had come to him, and would have been reduced to threadbare circumstances had not his second marriage rehabilitated him. He was trustee for his daughter, and lived on her estate. His son, Anthony, was but too well aware that the portion of goods that would fall to himself must be small, whereas his half-sister would be wealthy. The consciousness of this disparity in their prospects affected their relations to each other. Julian was disposed to imperiousness, and Fox let no opportunity pass of saying or doing something to annoy her.

"You have played us a scurvy trick, Anthony," said Fox, as he splashed through the river, and came up with the two on the further bank; then pushing close to Urith, whom Anthony had remounted on his saddle, he peered rudely into her face. He uttered an exclamation of rage as he recognised her, and turned away towards Cleverdon, and said, in a rasping tone, "We awaited you at the tavern an endless age, ever expecting you to come and let us know whether you had found the colts or not. I assured your sister and mine that you were after game of some sort, and the colt-seeking was a mask, but they would not believe me. Finally, I went to the stable, and found that you had slipped away without a word."

"Was I bound to let you know I was going home?" asked Anthony Cleverdon, without an effort to disguise his ill-humour.

"Bound, certainly, by all the ties of breeding and good-fellowship," answered Fox. "But, in good faith, when a woman is concerned, all other considerations are thrown to the winds."

Then he fell back, and addressing his sister Julian and Bessie Cleverdon loud enough to be overheard by those in front, he said, "I never doubted but that Anthony came after something other than colts, and to make a mock of us. I told you as much when we were at the Saracen's Head, and you scouted my words. You said the Fox was ever suspicious, but the Fox has his eye and his nose, and ear keen, and I saw, and smelt, and heard what was hidden to duller senses."

Cleverdon turned round. He was angry, but he said nothing.

Fox Crymes went on, tauntingly. "There is game of all sorts on the Moor; but, good Lord! it is sometimes hard to say which is the game and which the sportsman, and which has been in pursuit of the other."

"Silence that malicious tongue of yours, or I will silence it for you," said Anthony, angrily.

"O! I am always to be threatened whenever I draw my bow, but you—are to be scatheless, whatever your conduct be."

"You fight unfairly, with poisoned weapons."

"And you retaliate, like a wild man, with a bludgeon," answered Crymes. "Are we to hold our hands when treated by you as it has pleased you? You invited us to attend you to the Moor and spend with you a merry day, and then you desert us. Are we not free to question why we are thus treated?"

Then Bessie rode forwards beside Urith, and asked, "Tell me, how came you here?"

"She lost her way in the smoke, and no marvel," said Anthony Cleverdon. "I discovered her strayed among the bogs, and engirded with flames; and had I not done so, she would have stayed all night."

"But what brought her on to the moors?"

"The same occasion that brought you, Bess—she came to see the fires. She became distraught with the smoke, wandered, and lost all knowledge of her direction."

"It is well, brother, that you found her," said Elizabeth; and then, in a lower tone, "Brother, brother, speak to Julian. You have been short of courtesy to-day, and she resents it."

Anthony shrugged his shoulders.

"I will ride alongside of Urith," said Elizabeth Cleverdon. "You must not allow it to be observed that you lack manners, brother Anthony. You persuaded Julian and me to come with you and see the moor on fire, and you have left us to ourselves, and now disregard her markedly."

Whilst the brother and sister were in conversation near the horse on which Urith was mounted, Julian Crymes passed them with averted head, and took the lead along the Lyke-Way. Anthony, admonished by Bessie, strode forward after her, but with a frown and curl of the lips.

Julian Crymes was a handsome dark-haired girl, with a rich, warm complexion, and full lips and rounded chin. Her eyes were large, with that droop in the lids that gives an impression of sensuous languor.

She heard Anthony tread at her side, but did not deign to cast on him a look, neither did she throw a word at him. Indeed, she was angry and offended, her bosom was heaving, her blood was simmering, and her lips she bit to prevent their quiver. Anthony was out of humour at having been caught up by the party, and was conscious that he had not behaved with civility, but was too proud in himself, too indifferent to the feelings of others, to acknowledge himself to be in the wrong, and to make amends for his lack of courtesy to others.

Accordingly they pursued their way, side by side, she riding with averted head, he pacing with knitted brows and downcast eyes, in silence, and for some considerable distance.

The situation was irksome. Each, instead of speaking, was endeavouring to catch what was said in the rear, each with suspicion that Fox was saying something behind their backs which would cause the left ear to tingle.

Julian was the first to find the situation intolerable, and to break from it. She turned her head over her shoulders and said,

"Bessie could hardly be persuaded to leave the Saracen's Head, even when she heard that you had taken your horse and had ridden away. She has a marvellous faith in you, not shaken by a thousand evidences that you are wanting in those qualities on which faith can be reared. After this day's experience, even if I at any time shared in her estimation of your qualities of cavalier, I shall cease to do so for the future. The first obligation of a cavalier is to be mannerly towards ladies."

"You had Fox with you. I found Urith lost in the morasses, and was forced to help a damsel who was in jeopardy—that, I take it, is the first duty of a cavalier. You were in no straits and she was. You had help, she none."

"You might have called us to aid you in extracting her from the morass, or in assisting her to reach her home afterwards."

Anthony made no reply to this. No reply was possible.

"Come!" said Julian, the pent-up anger in her heart flashing forth. "Have you no apology to offer for your misconduct?"

"What would you have me say?"

"Nay! It is not for me to put the words into your mouth."

"I have told you my reason."

"A poor and pitiful reason, ungarnished with excuse to hide its sorry nature. If the reason be bad, so much the more should it be trimmed with excuses."

"If I have offended you, I am sorry. I cannot help it."

Julian tossed her head. She was highly incensed. He made no attempt to mollify her.

Fox came alongside.

"I hope, Julian," he said, "that you have soundly rated Anthony for his ill-conduct."

She did not answer.

"We might have had a merry canter home over the turf," continued Fox, "had not Anthony spoiled our fun by setting all our tempers on the edge. But it may be that it better comports with the character of the Lyke-Way that we should travel over it rather as mourners than as merrymakers, and that, forsooth, we are, bearing dead fellowship between us."

"There is no occasion for that," said Anthony.

"In truth there is, though you who have slain it may not be aware."

"I have no desire to spoil your mirth," said Cleverdon. "Ride on yourself, Fox, with your sister, and leave me behind."

"Julian and I are the worst of company together. We snarl and snap at each other when a third, not of the family, is not by to control us. We will certainly not leave you. I can see that Julian is already in no agreeable mood, and I dare not venture myself in her company unprotected."

"I—!" said Julian Crymes, tossing her head, "I—you mistake, Tony, I am merry."

Fox Crymes laughed mockingly, and spurred on his horse, leaving his sister with Anthony. Bessie brought up the rear with Urith. The train was, as he said, more in character with the way than if it had been composed of merrymakers. Urith and Bessie spoke together in a low tone; now that Fox had ridden forward, silence again fell on Anthony and Julian. He could not have seen the face of Julian had he essayed to do so, for he walked on the off-side, and she kept her head averted, and he his eyes depressed. She was glad that her face was hidden from observation, so agitated was it with disappointment, wounded pride, and jealousy.

Then Fox, ahead, began to sing to himself in strident tones a snatch of an old ballad, and every word in it fell on Julian's heart as a drop of burning phosphorous that no water will extinguish, but that burns down where it has fallen, burying itself, till it has exhausted its fire.

If I of marriage spake one word,

I wot it was not true.

Man loveth none so easy won,

So over fond as you.

All in your garden grows a herb,

I think they call it rue;

There willows weep o'er waters deep—

That is the place for you.

The tears of mortification rushed into Julian's eyes. Her bosom heaved, and sharply she wheeled her horse about, rode back to those that followed, and said to Bessie, in a voice quivering with emotion, "Go on to the two Anthonys. I want a word with Urith."

Without demur Elizabeth left her place and passed Julian, who drew up across the road to force Urith to rein in. Urith looked at her with some surprise. She did not know Julian except by sight; she had never spoken to her in her life. And now this latter stayed her course as though she were a highwayman demanding her purse.

Julian at first was unable to speak, choked by her passion. She panted for breath and laboured for words, and both failed her. With nervous hands she plucked at her gloves, and dragged rather than drew them off.

"Will you allow me to go forward?" asked Urith coldly.

Then all at once Julian broke forth into a stream of words, disconnected, fiery with the fury that raged within.

"You would snatch him away! You! And you do not know, or you do not care, that he and I are destined for each other—have been ever since our cradles. Who are you to come between us? What are you, Urith Malvine, but a half-savage moor-girl? I have heard of you. Folks have tongues, and tell tales. Why did you come forth on the moor, but because you were aware that he was here? You came to play the forlorn damsel—to attract the pity and ensure the attention of this knight-errant. Are you crafty? I am not. I am straightforward, and do not deign to wear a false face, and put the domino on my heart. I have heard of you; but I never supposed you were crafty." She half-started up her stirrups: "Would we might fight out our quarrel here, on this spot."

She had reared her arm with her whip, the horse started, and she sank back on her seat; she had exhausted her words for the moment. Her blood tumbled, roared, flowed in her arteries like the river on the moor behind them.

"You are mistaken," said Urith with composure. "You flare forth unprovoked; or is it that you are angry with me because I have refused to have anything to say to your brother?"

"To Fox!" Julian laughed contemptuously. "I respect you for that. I never supposed that you or any sane girl would care for him. But the wherefore of his rejection I did not know till this day. I little suspected that Fox was cast aside because you were questing him who is mine—is mine, do you hear? Do you understand that he is not, and never shall be, yours? He is mine, and neither you nor any other shall pluck him from me. I would we might fight this out together with these weapons!" She reverted to the thought that had occupied her when the horse started and interrupted the thread of her ideas. "You, I see, have Anthony's crop that I gave him on his birthday; and I have but this lady's switch. I do not consider the difference. Just as we are—as we sit on our horses, here, on the turf and heather, with our whips—would to God we might fight it out!"

Again she paused for breath, and panted, and put both her hands to her bounding heart—the hand that held the whip and that in which was the bridle and her gloves.

Then she began to cut with her whip, and the horse she rode to curvet.

"Even with this little lash I would fight you, and slash you up and down across your treacherous face; and if you struck me I should not feel the blows—but there, it would not be seemly. Alack the day in which we are fallen—when we are covered with a net of such delicacy that we may not lift hand or foot to right ourselves!"

She drew a long breath and laid both her hands on the whip and bridle over the mane of the horse, and, leaning forward, said—

"But who—what could interfere if we went a race down the hillside among the bogs and rocks, so that one or other would be flung at a stumble of our steeds, and dash out the brains from our heads on the boulders? Would that please you? Would that approve itself to you? I should draw rein and laugh were that to chance to you." Then in an explosion of jealousy and rage, she dashed her gloves in the face of Urith. "I dare you! Yes, I dare you to wrest him from me!"

Urith sat on the horse unmoved. She was surprised, she was not angry. This was the foaming over of boiling passion, but not a frenzied paroxysm such as came upon herself. The charges brought against her were monstrous, untrue—so monstrous and so untrue that they bore no sting that could pain her.

She replied in her rich deep tones, and with composure. "You mistake. I will not take up your challenge. What is Anthony to me? What am I to him? You are beautiful, clever, and rich—and I," she laughed, "I am but an ungroomed, undisciplined moor colt, who never gave a thought to her looks, whether fair or foul. I am without wit, without scholarship, living with my mother on our poor manor, so poor in means as to be hardly accounted gentle, yet, by birth, too gentle to be esteemed boors. No, I will not contest with you. We are furnished unequally for a contest, you have the long whip and I but the switch."

At that moment the wind, blowing strongly, carried a tuft of ignited gorse overhead, and as it bore the tuft, fanned into fragrance, and the glare momentarily kindled the faces of the two girls planted in opposition.

Each saw the other clearer than in daylight, for the light fell on their faces and the background was sable, unillumined. As Urith looked, she saw how handsome was her opponent, with fluttering locks, her colour heightened by wrath, her full lips trembling, her eyes flashing. She thought that if she were to match herself against such an one she would come away with ignominious defeat; and Julian, by the same light, and at the same moment, formed her opinion of the rival facing her, recognised her strength, her charm, and felt that she was a girl who would jeopardise her hold over Anthony, and imperil her happiness.

Both were strong women, one threatening, the other reluctant to fight. Would they come into real conflict? Would the reluctance of the one be overborne? Would the threat of the first lead to action? And, if they fought, which would win?

"No," said Urith, "I do not covet the prize. So much for one thing. For the other, as I said, the odds are unequal."

"Then," said Julian, "return me my gloves."

"I suppose they have fallen. Would you have me dismount to search the grass for them? Get off your horse yourself, or call Fox to your aid. I will not stoop to look for them for you."

"You have my gloves. They are not on the ground. Return them to me, or I—"

Then Urith impatiently whipped her horse and thrust Julian aside. "This is arrant folly," she said; "I want to be at home. I will be stayed by you no longer."

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